Love Game

I smiled, tried to lighten up the mood that had suddenly grown dark and cloudy. “I want to bother you. Jason is paying me specifically to bother you.”

Kai’s lips twitched but he said nothing.

“Come on,” I said, motioning to the gate. “I have an idea.”

“Now what are you going to do to me?” Kai said. “Hold a séance? Get out your Ouija board and ask the spirits to cure me?”

“How’d you guess?” I said, rolling my eyes. I gave him a little shove. “Go inside and put on something flexible to wear.”

“Nope.” Kai crossed his arms. “You want me to do yoga, right? I don’t do yoga.”

“I knew you were going to say that,” I said and pretended to check a watch I wasn’t wearing. “We’ve only known each other a few hours and you’re already predictable.”

“Ha ha. I don’t do yoga.”

“This isn’t just any kind of yoga, I promise. You’ll love it.” I narrowed my eyes at him. “Actually, knowing you, you’ll probably hate it. But we’re going to try anyway.”

“Is that so?”

“You have something better to do? Send poor Owen racing around the court, trying to return that ridiculously fast serve of yours?”

“You have a point.”

“Come on. Go change. Flexible clothes but not loose.”

“Flexible but not loose,” Kai said, following me to the gate.

“Yep,” I said, biting back a smile. “Or else you might get chewed on.”

Kai

I drove the Jeep that Jason had rented for me southwest, into Maui’s upcountry. Daisy gave directions while not telling me where, exactly, we were going to go. The road was winding and green as we drove deeper into the heart of Maui, until she finally said, “That’s it, up there.”

I looked to the sign she pointed at, trying not to stare at her slender arm, or the coppery bracelets that jangled on her delicate wrist.

Kula Farm, now offering Maui Goat Yoga

I shot her a look. “Goat yoga? Are you kidding?”

“Nope.”

“How does that even work?”

“It’s just like what it sounds. Yoga with miniature goats walking-and-or-climbing amongst us.”

“They’re going to climb on me?”

“Goats like to be up high. It’s the cutest thing ever. You don’t necessarily get a full yoga experience, but—”

“No, this one comes with bonus goat piss,” I muttered.

Nevertheless, I followed Daisy out of the car and to the farmhouse off the side of the road. We took a path around to a yard that was fenced in with wire where ten people were sitting on yoga mats. Miniature goats—about the size of large dogs—meandered among the people, chewing on t-shirts and on the participants’ shoes they’d piled next to their mats. An instructor sat in front, a baby goat gnawing on the hem of her shirt. The instructor welcomed us with a smile and beckoned to sit our mats anywhere.

“Anywhere the goats haven’t shit on yet,” I said under my breath. “Tell me again why we’re here?”

Daisy arched a brow at me. “Because you’re holding on to your anger like it’s some prized possession. Which is unhealthy. And it’s impossible to be angry around baby goats.”

“What if one pisses on me? Can I be angry then?”